Chapter 8
Belinda
The Crow’s Nest vibrated.
It wasn't a metaphor. The glass floor of the media booth was physically shaking under the stomping of six thousand Blackwood students. They were chanting. A primal, rhythmic roar that traveled up through the concrete bones of the arena and settled deep in my chest.
VOL-KOV. VOL-KOV. VOL-KOV.
I sat at the control console, surrounded by monitors, my hands gripping the edge of the desk so tightly my knuckles were white.
It was the Season Opener. Blackwood vs. Northeastern. The rivalry game.
The atmosphere was toxic in the best possible way. The air in the arena was hazy with humidity and hype. The student section—"The Kodiak Pit"—was a sea of black and gold, frothing with energy. The band was blaring a distorted version of "Enter Sandman."
Down on the ice, it was war.
From my vantage point four stories up, the players looked like armored gladiators sliding on knives. The speed was terrifying. Unless you’ve stood at glass level, you don't understand how fast hockey is. It’s violence at sixty miles per hour. It’s physics gone wrong.
And in the center of the chaos stood Peter.
He was a fortress.
He looked bigger tonight. Maybe it was the pads—the new black and gold set that made him look like a sleek, armored machine. Maybe it was the way he stood in the crease, perfectly still while chaos swirled around him.
Or maybe it was because I knew what was underneath the armor.
I checked the monitor to my left. Shot Count: Blackwood 12, Northeastern 18.
They were hammering him. Our defense was sloppy. Miller had missed two assignments already, leaving the slot wide open.
Peter had bailed them out. Every time.
A glove save that defied gravity. A kick save that looked like a martial arts move. A blocker save that sent the puck screaming into the corner with a sound like a gunshot.
He was perfect.
But I knew the signs. I knew the data.
I zoomed the camera in on his face during a stoppage in play.
Through the cage of his mask, his eyes were wide. Too wide. His chest was heaving. He wasn't taking sips of water; he was gulping it.
He was playing angry.
“You’re playing angry,” Sarge had told him. “You’re leaving the crease.”
I watched him skate out to challenge the shooter, way beyond the blue paint. It was aggressive. It was dangerous.
"Get back in the net, Pyotr," I whispered to the glass, my breath fogging the cold surface. "Don't be a hero. Just be a goalie."
My phone buzzed on the desk.
Sloane: Is it just me or is Peter playing like he wants to fight someone? He just slashed that forward.
Me: High adrenaline. Stress response.
Sloane: Or sexual frustration. Just saying.
I flushed, shoving the phone away.
It wasn't sexual frustration. It was the pressure. It was his father’s voice in his head. The ice always cracks.
I looked down at my outfit. I wasn't wearing my usual oversized sweater. I was wearing Peter’s jersey.
Not a replica from the bookstore. His jersey. The spare game-worn one he had tossed at me yesterday with a grunt that translated to wear this.
It was huge. It came down to my knees. It smelled like him—detergent and sandalwood. The name VOLKOV across my back felt like a brand. A claim.
I smoothed the fabric over my thighs, feeling a fierce, protective surge.
He was mine. The Tsar. The data point. The man who kissed my knuckles like I was royalty.
And down there, surrounded by Northeastern goons who wanted to put a piece of rubber through his chest, he looked terrifyingly alone.
The second period was a bloodbath.
Not literally—though there was a fight near the benches that resulted in a spray of blood on the ice—but tactically.
Northeastern had figured out our weakness. They stopped trying to beat Peter with finesse. They started crashing the net.
Screening. Bumping. hacking at his pads after the whistle.
It was dirty hockey. It was designed to rattle the goalie. To make him snap.
I watched Peter shove a Northeastern winger who got too close. The ref didn't call it.
"Call the interference!" I yelled at the empty booth, slamming my hand on the desk. "He’s in the crease! That’s goalie interference!"
Nobody heard me. The crowd was screaming for blood.
Score: 2-2.
Five minutes left in the period.
Northeastern dumped the puck in. Our defenseman, Jax, went to retrieve it. He got pinned against the boards. The puck squirted out to the slot.
A Northeastern player—Number 88, a massive forward with a reputation for cheap shots—picked it up. He was all alone.
Breakaway.
The stadium went silent. Six thousand people held their breath.
It was just Peter and Number 88.
Peter came out to challenge. He made himself big. He looked like a wall.
Number 88 faked a shot. Peter didn't bite.
88 deked left. Peter slid with him, perfectly mirrored.
88 tried to go five-hole. Peter snapped his legs shut, the pads colliding with a thwack.
Save.
The crowd erupted.
But the whistle didn't blow. The puck was loose. It was trapped under Peter’s leg, but the ref lost sight of it.
88 saw it. He didn't poke at it. He slashed.
He brought his stick down hard, chopping at the back of Peter’s knee—the one spot where the padding was thinnest.
I saw Peter’s head snap back. I saw his mouth open in a scream I couldn't hear over the crowd.
He crumpled.
He didn't fall gracefully. He collapsed. One leg buckled under him, and he went down face-first onto the ice.
The whistle finally blew.
But Peter didn't get up.
"No," I whispered. I stood up, knocking my chair over. "No, no, no."
The arena went dead silent. The cheering cut off like a switch had been flipped.
Peter lay motionless in the crease. Number 88 was skating away, looking innocent. Jax grabbed him by the jersey and started punching, but I didn't care about the fight.
I only cared about the black-and-gold heap on the ice.
"Get up," I begged, pressing my hands against the glass. "Please, Peter. Get up."
The trainer ran out onto the ice. Sarge was yelling at the refs.
Peter moved. He rolled onto his back. He ripped his mask off.
I saw his face on the Jumbotron.
He was pale. Grimacing. His eyes were squeezed shut, teeth bared in a snarl of pain.
He grabbed his knee.
My stomach dropped out of my body. The room spun.
The ice cracks.
If he was hurt... if he couldn't play... the draft. The bonus. The debt.
His father.
He wasn't just losing a game. He was losing his escape route.
I couldn't breathe. I felt the panic rising in my throat, a physical constriction.
I need to be there. I need to get down there.
I grabbed my bag. I abandoned the console. I abandoned the data.
I ran.
The locker room hallway was a restricted zone, but I had the highest clearance level on staff. I swiped my badge, my hands shaking so badly it took three tries.
The corridor smelled of ice and tension.
I heard shouting from the locker room. Sarge’s voice.
"...cheap shot! If you don't eject him, I will pull my team off the ice!"
The door to the medical room was open.
I stopped in the doorway.
Peter was sitting on the exam table. He was still in his gear, except for the right leg pad, which had been cut away.
His leg was extended. The trainer, Doc Evans, was probing the back of his knee.
Peter’s head was thrown back, staring at the ceiling tiles. His face was a mask of sweat and pain. His knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the table.
He looked destroyed.
"It’s not the ACL," Doc Evans was saying, his voice calm. "Ligaments are intact. It’s a deep bone bruise. Maybe a hairline fracture in the fibula head from the impact. But the structure is stable."
"Can I play?" Peter rasped. He didn't look down.
"Peter, you can barely walk," Doc said. "If you go back out there, one bad pivot could tear the meniscus."
"Can. I. Play?" Peter repeated, grinding the words out.
"I can freeze it," Doc sighed. "Lidocaine. Tape it up. But you’ll pay for it tomorrow. And you’ll be slow."
"Do it."
"Peter!"
My voice rang out in the small room.
Peter’s head snapped toward me.
For a second, he looked confused. Hazy. Then, his eyes focused. He saw the jersey. He saw the terror on my face.
"Bee," he breathed.
"You can't go back out there," I said, stepping into the room. "You heard him. You could tear the meniscus. That’s surgery. That’s six months of rehab. That’s the draft."
"We’re tied," Peter said. "If we lose this, we drop in the rankings. The scouts stop coming."
"If you break your leg, the scouts stop coming forever!" I argued, walking up to the table. I ignored Doc Evans, who was watching us with raised eyebrows.
I stood between Peter’s legs—the uninjured one and the one that was throbbing. I put my hands on his chest, right over the padded protector.
"Look at me," I commanded.
He looked down. His pupils were blown wide from the pain and adrenaline.
"It’s just a game," I whispered.
"It’s not a game," he hissed, leaning down until his forehead touched mine. He smelled of sweat and ice and desperation. "It’s the exit strategy. It’s the only thing I have."
"You have me," I said.
The words slipped out. I didn't plan them. They just existed.
Peter froze. His breath hitched.
"Bee," he groaned.
"You have me," I repeated fiercely. "And I’m telling you, the data says the risk is too high. The reward isn't worth the variable."
He closed his eyes. He leaned his weight against me. For a moment, he wasn't the Captain. He was just a boy who was scared and hurt.
"I have to finish it," he whispered. "I started it. I have to finish it."
He pulled back. He looked at Doc.
"Freeze it," he ordered. "Tape it tight."
He looked back at me. His eyes were pleading. Don't stop me.
I stared at him. I wanted to scream. I wanted to drag him off the table.
But I saw the compass tattoo peeking out from under his chest protector. True North.
This was his direction. He couldn't change course.
"Okay," I whispered, my voice breaking. "Okay. But if you get hurt worse... I will personally kill you."
He managed a weak, crooked smile. "Deal."
I stepped back.
Doc Evans went to work. The needle. The tape.
I watched, feeling every wince Peter tried to hide.